Stains
by LCFC
Summary: After stopping the Apocalypse - Sam's dreams take a sinister turn. Can Dean save him? written for the sam summer love challenge on LJ


_The mist is so thick he can barely see and he feels as if he is choking on it. He moves slowly through it, a huge mausoleum like a shadow in the murk behind him, nothing in front of him but white, thick fog and he swallows hard as if it might choke him. ._

The mist clears and he can see water; it smells bad, like death and decay, like something is rotting beneath it. He moves so lightly he feels as if he is floating and he draws in a breath as he sees a gray, hooded figure bending over the water.

It seems to be washing something, scrubbing the garment, if it is a garment, over and over, rubbing it against the black stones, dipping it into the water, wailing, wailing, a voice low and hopeless mumbles, 'I can't get it out. I can't get it out.'

He reaches out and clasps the bent shoulder with his hand; the figure turns and he sees hollow eyes and a grinning mouth and he falls back, his mouth open in a silent plea….

Sam woke screaming.

Dean was at his side in an instant, bending over his brother's bed and placing his hand over Sam's forehead. It was beaded in cold sweat but it was burning as if Sam was on fire. He drew in a breath and picked up the glass beside Sam, holding it to his brother's chapped lips and making his brother drink.

"Hurts." Sam's voice was hoarse and Dean shouldn't be surprised. Sam had been screaming for the last four days and along with the fever that seemed to be getting worse by the minute, it was just one more thing for Dean to worry about.

****

Post Apocalypse and Dean thought that they might, for once, catch a break.

Lucifer was gone...destroyed by God...a God Castiel had found, a God that was not dead and to Dean's eternal gratitude cared enough to save the world he had created and save Sam and Dean along with it.

No more angels or demons. No more blood addiction. No more running.

Dean wanted to party as if every day was his birthday and Sam had joined him. The Winchesters were still _'Team Free Will'_ and Dean had been happier than he had been in decades.

Now...now, Sam was sick and Dean was at a loss as to what to do.

He was thinking hospital, he was thinking Bobby's, he was panicking and desperate and still...still Sam screamed.

****

_Sam's feet were bare; he could feel the cold dew beneath them, feel every sharp pebble as it bit into the soles. He was aware of the mausoleum behind him, aware somehow of the open gates, of the things that followed in his wake. He wasn't afraid at that moment but he knew deep within his heart that fear was not far away. Fear would find him and there was no escape._

He saw the river, heard the soft ripple of the water over rocks. It looked better in the daylight, the grass surrounding it was green and mossy, the sun reflecting onto the stones and making rainbows.

The figure had moved further down the bank but it still worked on the garment before it. It scrubbed harder now, rubbing the thin, white material over the rocks, moaning and wailing, holding it up to the light and searching with its eyes.

"So stained," it moaned. "So many black spots. I cannot get it clean. I cannot get it clean."

As before Sam leant forward to touch it and this time it opened its cavernous mouth and screamed into his face….

Sam was burning up, alive; Dean was sure of it.

His brother tossed and turned on the bed and Dean could barely hold him still enough to get the thermometer into his ear. It beeped and Dean swallowed hard as he saw that it was 103 and climbing. He bent over his brother and swiped sweaty chestnut hair from his brow.

"Can you hear me Sam?" He whispered, his own throat sore, his whole body throbbing with tiredness, the smell of sweat permeating the room.

"Hot Dean, so hot. I-it is screaming at me...can't...don't know how to stop it, Dean."

"We'll stop it." He was pulling his cell out from his pocket and pressing 911 before he had a chance to change his mind. "I swear, Sam, we'll stop it."

****

As they sped along with sirens blaring, Dean could only hold his brother's hand and pray.

He stared out of the tinted windows at the late spring sunshine and bit his lip so hard it bled salty onto his tongue. Only two weeks ago on Saint Patrick's Day, the two of them had gone to a _real_ Irish pub and gotten wasted. It had been the most fun that Dean had had in decades and he had though then that things were looking up, getting better, that he and Sam were safe and well and heading for the home straight.

How could he have been so wrong?

****

_He doesn't stop this time; leaves the open gates of the mausoleum far behind,  
moves swiftly to the riverbank, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery._

He knows, somehow, he isn't really here. He is dreaming. But he also knows on another level, this place exists. He is here for a reason, he is being punished for something and he knows quite well what that something is.

The thing is on the bank, the garment laid out in front of it; it smells of carbolic soap but it is blackened, stained so badly that the thing is weeping. Weeping piteously.

The thing turns and he sees it, feels sick down to his bones. Its face is older than time, wrinkled and gray, wide-mouthed and hollow eyed. It seems to look at him and then it bends down and takes the garment into its hands, holding it up against its wizened skin and screaming.

"Your soul...," it cries. "Your soul is so stained, it won't be clean. It won't ever be clean…."

Sam shoots up in bed and the IV pulls from his arm; blood spurts and Dean is jarred awake, pushed aside by medical personnel, the sounds of panic echoing throughout the room, only drowned out by Sam's screams.

"She can't get it out," Sam says and his eyes are wild. "It won't ever be clean. I'm unclean. Unclean. Unclean."

And then he flops back like a puppet with broken strings, lies sprawled across the bed, tears drying on his burning cheeks, his hands clasped over his head like a corpse.

"What's wrong with my brother?" Dean asks and he hears nothing but silence.

****

St Patrick's Day and Sam is talking to a red headed Irish girl, a REAL Irish girl with the lilt and a green shirt and everything.

Sam is laughing and Dean thinks _'This is good. Sam is happy,_ and the girl puts her hand on Sam's arm and whispers something in his ear. Sam cocks his head to one side and frowns a little and then he puts his lips against her cheek and Dean makes a swift exit. Glad. Glad and warm all over because Sam is HAPPY and how can that not be the best thing in the world ever?

Now, he sits in ICU and watches his brother breathe; watches the machine breathe for him, watches Sam's red cheeks bloom against his chalk white face, hears the mutters that drop from his brother's limp mouth, hears the words, _'soul'_ and _'stained'_ and wants to weep.

He knows Sam still feels it, still feels the guilt and the shame. Still regrets bleeding an innocent woman dry, still has nightmares about the withdrawal, about their time apart, about Lucifer torturing him to say, _'Yes'_. But he thought, yeah he thought Sam was nearly over all that. He thought Sam was content and had found peace.

Now he wondered...wondered if he was wrong….

****

_This time he is in the mausoleum and he can see the coffins are opening and bodies are climbing out, wandering through the open gates and out onto the riverbank._

There are many old crones there, bent over the water, scrubbing at garments. They all wail and moan and as the corpses approach them they turn, hollow eyed, portents of doom.

He sees that some of the crones hand over their garments to the bodies in front of them. He sees how clean the things are, how white. Toothless mouths smile, the screaming stops and the bodies lift their arms to heaven and vanish.

His own creature is still scrubbing, the cloth or whatever it is in her hand, as grubby and as stained as ever.

"You will never be free," she wails. "Never. Never. Never. This will never be clean. It will never be clean…."

****

Dean sits by his brother's bed and rubs his hand across Sam's burning forehead. His brother is no longer lucid and he tosses and turns, almost pulling out the IV line, the only thing keeping him alive, glucose and medication being pumped into him.

"Tell me something...." He turns to the doctor who looks tired, worn, puzzled. "Anything."

"Your brother is dying." The doctor is sympathetic but frank. "And we don't know why."

Dean stares at Sam, his eyes burning. This cannot be happening, not now, not ever. They both said, _'NO_'. They are alive, the Apocalypse is over and Sam cannot die...Dean won't let him. Dean can do something….

He just doesn't know what.

****

Outside the air is fresh, barely warm, the sun a faint stain of yellow in the cloudy sky. Dean wants to scream, to kick, to do something, anything and he is bursting with energy and frustration, his heart pounding hard against his chest, his whole body throbbing.

Then he sees her; red hair, soft pale skin, freckles. He remembers St Patrick's Day and remembers her talking to his brother.

Maybe she is a witch, maybe she is something that has cursed Sam and if she is then the bitch is going to die...now or later it doesn't matter.

Dean isn't thinking when he grabs her arm and pulls her hard against him.

"What did you fucking say to him?" He demands and she turns to him, green eyes wide with fear.

"I don't know what you mean. Who? What did I say to who?" She is looking for an out, looking for someone to help her. He can feel her on the verge of a scream and he pulls her closer so that she can feel the gun he has in his belt, know that he is a threat.

"My brother," he snarls and she goes,impossibly, whiter.

"I just told him an old Irish legend that is all." Her accent is lilting, soft and he feels his own body go from taut to loose in moments.

"What legend?" He asks and she draws in a sigh and begins.

****

Dean's hands are shaking when he rings Bobby.

His old friend never regained the use of his legs but he did get his heart back, his lust for life and for that Dean was grateful. Bobby was the nearest thing to family he and Sam had and he knew the older man would know what to do, know how to get them out of this.

The woman meaning no harm...how could she know? Had told Sam the story of the Sidhe or Shee, sometimes known as Banshee. This old woman, often related to fairy folk, keened and wailed when someone was about to die but she was also seen as the _'washer of souls'_, and to see her washing your shroud or garment meant that you were about to die and only if your garment, or soul, was clean...then and only then would you be welcome at the gates of heaven.

Dean felt sick; how was the young woman who drank Guinness and told _'tall tales'_ know how badly affected by evil Sam truly was? How was she to know Sam thought he was evil? That his soul was stained. Sam had set Lucifer free, he had drunk demon blood, he had killed both humans and demons in his quest for power, in his quest to kill Lilith. Sam believed that he was irredeemable, that he could not be forgiven and despite saying, no, despite surviving torture and the final fight Sam still believed it and his belief was killing him.

Dean had heard Sam, heard what he had said as he lay burning up on the hospital bed, heard the words _'unclean – stained'_, repeated over and over. Sam was lost and it was Dean who would have to find him again. Dean who needed his brother, who needed Sam. He could not, would not, go on without him and he was going to save him and Bobby was going to tell him how.

****

_He is sitting on the riverbank now, hands over his eyes, tears stinging and his throat burning. He can't see much but the thick mist and he knows he is alone...alone with the stains on his soul. There is no release for him, no mercy. The thing that scrubs at the constantly stained garment wails and wails and he takes his hands from his eyes and holds them tight over his ears._

He wants to be free of this torture but it is something that he has brought upon himself. He was too proud, too stubborn, too eaten up with his own fight for revenge, for power. He knows deep down whatever Dean says, whatever Dean does to reassure him, he knows he is evil and he is never going to be rid of the stains on his soul.

****

"Dream walking...." Dean holds the cell to his ear and shakes his head. "But this isn't about dreams, Bobby. Sam...didn't you hear me? Sam is going to die!"

"Sam believes he isn't worthy enough to live." Bobby's voice is harsh but sympathetic. "Sam...the story that girl told Sam?...It...it has broken something inside him. He has given up, Dean a-and you have to bring him back around again."

"You think that...that he is dreaming all this? Making it up in his mind?"

"That is exactly what I do believe you, idjit!" He can hear the headshake in Bobby's voice. "I have some of the root, I'll get it too you somehow. Now go and take care of your brother and Dean...don't forget to pray."

****

Dean bent over the bed and brushed his lips against his brother's sweat-stained brow. He waited until he knew he was alone and then, gently, he pulled several hairs out of his brother's head and sprinkled them into the drink. His mouth was dry and his stomach was churning, his eyes on Sam's thin, pale face, wondering what was going on in that freaky head, wondering if he could save Sam and wondering if he could save himself.

****

_The creature who scrubs at his soul is angry. She slams the garment on the rock over and over. He bends down to try and take it from her hand but she screeches and puts her bony fingers over his heart._

"There is no escape," she wails and her fingers dig into his flesh and pull.

His own screams mingle with hers…

The doctors rush into ICU and begin to work over Sam.

From where he has been pushed to the back of the room, Dean tries to see. He clutches the flask in his hand and wonders if he has left it too late...knowing, if his brother leaves this place, then Dean is leaving too.

Sam's body is convulsing and his lips are blue. He is gasping for air like a fish on a hook. There are no words now, just a long, endless scream and Dean can feel his eyes burning, tears pouring down his cheeks. He flattens himself up against the concrete wall and takes a drink from the flask. It is as foul as he remembers but it is hope. It is the only hope he has.

He hears someone call his name as his legs go out and then he is somewhere else entirely.

****

_He sees the ghosts drift aimlessly through gray mist; behind him is a huge white structure and he knows somehow they have come from there. He follows them, the cold cloying at his body, his fingers and toes already frozen._

He needs to find Sam and he needs to find him now.

He can see the riverbank and it is crawling with souls. There is wailing, moaning and the hideous scent of death. He has been to Hell and back and he knows a lot about suffering and these souls are suffering. Suffering without release.

Creatures, old hags, the Sidhe scrub at garments all along the riverbank. Dean knows what they are, what they represent and he avoids the clawing hands of the ghosts as he runs down the muddy bank, looking, looking for Sam.

When he sees his brother he almost falls in relief. Sam is insubstantial, flickering in and out, his face contorted into a scream of pain and terror. Dean has never seen such an expression on his brother's face before and he feels sick, rushing forward.

A hollow-eyed skeletal creature tries to stop him. It has wild gray hair and it is clawing at his brother's chest. It has a garment in its other hand, stained and ripped, it hangs there and Dean knows exactly what it is.

"Sammy." He grabs his brother, amazed that he is able too. "Sammy."

It is a dream or an illusion, he doesn't know which and he doesn't care. He is walking in his brother's dream...a dream that will kill Sam...a dream of his brother's own making.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is hoarse from screaming but his fathomless eyes are suddenly filled with hope. "Dean. It...it...she can't get it clean. I'll never be clean."

Dean shakes his head and leans forward, pulling the garment from the old hag's fingers. It is damp and cold, so cold it turns his hands blue, his fingers wrinkling. It hurts. It really hurts but Dean doesn't care, he hangs onto the thing in his hands and he bends over the river. He dips the garment into the water and he sees how the water suddenly turns blue, sees the mist clear, sees a tiny pinprick of sun.

"Dean…." Sam sounds wondering. He is more substantial now, eyes hazel again full of hope and love.

"It is okay, Sammy." Dean smiles. "I've got it clean for you. See?" The garment is white now, shining with it and Sam smiles back, dimples and everything, the first real smile Dean has seen from Sam for what seems like decades and he hands his brother his soul and then takes him into his arms.

The Sidhe fades as the mist does and all that is left is the riverbank and the blue of the sky. Dean holds on to his brother and waits for resolution.

****

When Dean opens his eyes again he is lying on a truckle bed in what looks like a normal hospital ward. A passing nurse stops and smiles down at him, her small hand around his wrist.

"Are you feeling okay now?" She asks, gently and he nods, mouth dry as he asks the question that is burning into his gut like acid.

"Sam?"

"Your brother is...is getting better." She smiles and Dean lets his head fall back against the pillow. "Do you want to see him?"

He doesn't have words but the nurse seems to understand his silence.

"Come on." She puts her hand behind his shoulders and helps him up. "I'll take you to him."

****

Sam is no longer in ICU; he is sitting up in bed, face pale against the white pillowcase, chestnut hair hanging limply around his cheeks and neck. His eyes light up when he sees Dean and he pats the mattress.

The nurse smiles fondly at them both as she helps Dean to sit next to his brother. Sam is happy, whole and alive. It is all that Dean wants or needs right now and they sit in compatible silence for a while, shoulders brushing, breathing in sync.

"You saved me," Sam says, finally and Dean shifts his head to stare at his brother. "You saved me Dean."

"Don't mention it, Sammy." He tries for casual, flippant, but it doesn't work. His throat is thick and he knows how close he came to loosing his baby brother.

"I-I can't remember a lot of it." Sam rubs his hands through his hair and yawns. He looks tired but relaxed, the redness gone from his cheeks, his temperature back to normal, his eyes bright and clear.

"What do you remember?" He doesn't want to know, not really, but they have to talk about this. They have to because if they don't it will be another thing just brushed under the mat of denial and Dean doesn't want anymore secrets between them.

"The washerwoman, the river...all those lost souls." Sam shudders and he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his slim throat. "And my soul. Never clean."

"But now?" Dean is holding his breath and he wonders if the doctors might be needed anytime soon.

"Now?" Sam frowns briefly and then he takes Dean's hand, long fingers wrapping around broad ones, holding tight, not giving Dean the chance to pull away. "Now I feel...I feel free, Dean. My soul...it...its okay, I guess...I guess I'm forgiven."

Dean breathes out and leans against Sam enjoying their closeness, letting them have this chick-flick moment, figuring they need it.

"You are a good guy Sammy," he says, eventually, wriggling his fingers free before Sam can stop him, grinning, full of energy suddenly, wanting to get out of here.

Sam said nothing but his smile spoke volumes. He looked suddenly very young, hopeful and free.

"I'm hungry." His voice was full of emotion and his smile wavered a little. "I could go for a cheeseburger right now."

"And pie?" Dean was already on his feet.

"Yeah, pie." Sam grinned, warm and happy. "Definitely pie!"

"Okay, then." Dean looked out the window; the sun was shining and the sky was cloudless and it was going to be a beautiful day. "Pie."

And that, to the Winchesters was as close to, _'I love you'_, as anything would get.

End


End file.
